


lie to me

by burningdarkfire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burningdarkfire/pseuds/burningdarkfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have no idea what loyalty to a person means, do you?" Canada is son of the English king, lover of the French king, and brother of the American Revolutionist.  FACE AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. there's a storm in your eyes i've seen coming for a while

England throws himself into the blow and grits his teeth as their swords meet, a strength equal to his own pushing back at him.

"Die, you bloody wine bastard," he hisses at his opponent, baring his teeth. His words can barely be picked out from the rushing torrent of shouts and grunts that surround the two of them, but he knows that France is listening.

"That's incredibly uncivil," France pants, a grin slowly unfurling as he whirls back and forward again for another blow. "Not that I would expect anything else from you."

"You're one to talk," England growls, trying to wrest his opponent's blade away from him. "I heard you've taken yet another mistress; you have no idea what loyalty to a person means, do you?"

France bursts into laughter, not even cringing when England finally manages to draw blood. A thin trail of red flickers across his cheek and he springs back, still chortling. "Until next time, _Angleterre_."

England is left with France's blood gleaming on his sword, taunting him, as the French troops retreat.

* * *

America paces back and forth before his brother, his breath condensing in the cold night air. The two of them are alone by the barren seaside, far away from any towns or villages. "England's furious. He's planning a full scale attack on France in a week's time."

Canada nods to show he's listening and tries to warm himself with the pastry America brought for him, but the treat tastes strange, overly sweet and sticky, after the French food he's been eating for the past two days.

"Can you make it there and back before tomorrow night?" America asks, leaning forward to take a bite out of the pastry. He chews and wipes his mouth clear of crumbs before continuing, "England wants to have a war meeting with us and asked me to find you."

Canada wordlessly offers the rest of the pastry to his brother, who accepts it happily. "If I go now, I can probably make it."

America swallows his mouthful and considers for a few moments, the seconds ticking away around them. "Would it be a better idea for you to go after the war meeting?"

Canada shrugs and walks away. "See you tomorrow night."

* * *

" _Merci_ ," France purrs in his ear as they stand in the broken moonlight. His accent is thick, his voice low, as he whispers, "There's nothing else you can tell me?"

"England wants me to be on the war council. I probably won't have any more time to visit you until after."

France's eyes glimmer blue-silver as distant bells ring in three o'clock. "If you say so, _Mathieu_."

"America said you have a new mistress," Matthew adds, staring at the glowing lights of Paris out the window.

France's hands ghost down his body, his breath warm against Canada's neck as he says, "There's only you, _Mathieu._ "

* * *

"This is unacceptable!"

Canada bows his head and keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. His brother remains silent beside him, but he can see the way America's fingers are curled into a fist that presses angrily against the cold floor.

England stops his pacing to grab Canada's chin, forcing him to look up. "Have you been sneaking out to meet that filthy bastard?"

Canada shakes his head mutely, a weight lodged firmly in his throat. He tries to meet England's eyes, but his father has already moved on.

"America," England says quietly, kneeling before his son. America raises his eyes slowly, blue chips of ice embedded in a young face. England leans closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Was it you that told France about our plan to attack tonight?"

"No." America's voice is firm and powerful, and England's own flinty eyes narrow slightly at his tone. "Face it, you lost. It wasn't our fault!"

SMACK.

England stands over America, his hand still raised and trembling with rage. Canada rushes to his brother's side with a cautious glance at England, who snorts and turns to ascend the steps to his throne.

"I'm raising the taxes again," England announces as he sits down, his glare daring his sons to defy him. "We need more funding if this war is going to drag on like this."

"You can't do that!" America shouts, ignoring Canada as he tries to hold him back. America looks livid as he grips his sword tightly but keeps it sheathed. "My people are already suffering! Why should they have to pay for your war? This has nothing at all to do with them!"

"Canada, get out." England's voice is deadly quiet. Canada gives his brother a warning look before bowing and backing out of the room. As the guards close the door, their faces impassive, he hears England say, "It's time you learned your lesson, _Alfred_. They are not your people. They are mine."

Canada runs down the hall, England's poisonous shouts echoing behind him.

* * *

America appears in Canada's room around noon, rousing him from his sleep. Canada motions his brother in and wordlessly starts treating his wounds, ignoring the winces and hisses of pain as he cleans off blood.

"Arthur threatened to cut my tongue off if I didn't watch my words," America tells him, unmistakably proud despite the fact that his mouth is bloody and bruised and he can barely talk.

"Don't call him that," Canada mutters, dabbing at America's lip until his brother pulled back.

"Arthur? He's hardly worthy of being called England anymore," America snorts, running a hand through his hair as he walks over to the curtains. He pulls them back and squints as sunlight streams into the room. "His time as leader of the English empire is over. This world needs a new hero."

Canada sighs and packs away his healing supplies. "England will never abdicate the throne, and he most certainly won't let you succeed him anytime soon. He's been king since he was fifteen years old; I don't think he knows what it's like to not be in power."

"That's something to think about," America frowns, letting the curtains fall shut again. His previously illuminated face is obscured for a moment by the darkness of the room until Canada's eyes adjust. "If what the records say is true, then his father and older brothers all died of mysterious circumstances."

"France claims he became king when he was fourteen," Canada says quietly.

A look of surprise, twisted by darker tendrils of suspicion, crosses his brother's face. "There must be some secret they're hiding."

Canada shrugs. "He only mentioned it in the passing. You know how they're always competing with each other."

America's face hardens. "They're always fighting against each other, and it's tearing apart this whole world! Why are they so self-absorbed? This war needs to _end_."

"Yeah," Canada agrees softly. "We have to do something."

* * *

" _L'Amérique veut que la guerre soit finie_?"

Canada gasps and arcs upwards at France's touch. " _O-oui, i-il m'a dit q-que -_ "

" _Alors on doit lui donner ce qu'il veut, n'est-ce pas_?"

" _Q-Quoi? A-Ah … F-France_!"

" _Mon nom … je m'appelle François_."

* * *

"I've been thinking," America says the moment Canada steps off the boat, and then pauses. Canada waits for him to continue, the sound of the waves filling the silence. "If we combine forces and attack together," he continues slowly, "it shouldn't be that hard to overthrow Arthur. America and Canada combined make about half of the empire's population, and there's no way it's only our people who are sick of the taxes. I can send a few people over to England and see we can start a rebellion over there."

"Don't bother," Canada replies tiredly, hiding the boat away as he does every time he returns from visiting France. He starts the trudge to his home, America immediately falling into place beside him.

"I'm serious!" America tries to grab Canada's arm, but Canada just shrugs him off. "Aren't you tired of watching your people suffering? We have to end this war!"

"I know we do."

America quickly steps in front of his brother, so that Canada is forced to either stop or run straight into him. "Then help me!"

Canada looks up at his brother's strained but otherwise handsome face. "War is a serious thing, Alfred. Do you really want to start a civil war on top of this one just because of a few taxes?"

If America is taken aback by the use of his birth name, he doesn't show it. Instead, he grabs Canada by the shoulders and says earnestly, "Taxes that our people can't pay! At least if we start this war – and it won't be a war, more like, more like a revolution! – then it will be for a cause! It won't be like the pointless war between England and France. If we can't make Arthur see reason, then he can fight by himself. We were meant to rule someday, Mattie. Why not soon?"

When Canada remains silent, America leans down slightly so that their foreheads are touching and whispers, "Are you with me or against me, Mattie?"

"There's no middle ground?" America doesn't answer. Canada heaves a sigh and tells him, "I spoke to France last night. He's expecting you in Paris within two days. He'll help you."

A look of shock flicks across America's face. "France will help us?"

"France wants a decisive victory too."

America grins and pulls his brother into a hug. "We'll watch the English Empire fall and create something even bigger and better out of its ashes, Mattie. This will all turn out for the best. Now, I better get a move on if I want to look decent when I visit France!"

Canada turns away from his brother without saying anything and continues on his way back to Ottawa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: this fic is about 100% angst.
> 
> Some background: Pretend England is a bit bigger and that there are two islands right beside it that are each about half the size of it, add a few swords (because guns make everything harder to write), rulers whose titles are the land they govern, and an author who apparently was really upset one day (I don't even remember why) and took it out on the characters, and you'll get this fic.
> 
> Canada and America are England's sons (I imagine he was really young when they were born) and each rule over one of the smaller islands. England and France have engaged in skirmishes pretty much ever since they both ascended to the throne, but the war hasn't been "official" for that long.
> 
>  _Translations:_
> 
> " _L'Amérique veut que la guerre soit finie_?" - _"_ America wants the war to be over?"
> 
> " _O-oui, i-il m'a dit q-que -_ "- "Y-Yes, h-he told me th-that -"
> 
> " _Alors on doit lui donner ce qu'il veut, n'est-ce pas_?" - "So we must give him what he wants, isn't that right?"
> 
> " _Q-Quoi? A-Ah … F-France_!" - "W-What? A-Ah ... F-France!"
> 
> " _Mon nom … je m'appelle François_." - "My name ... My name is Francis."


	2. there's a storm in your eyes i've seen coming for a while

The atmosphere was soft, full of murmuring noblemen and their pretty trophy wives dressed in muted colors. Matthew was standing by himself off in a corner, peering around shyly to attempt to find his father, when a stranger approached.

" _Mais comme tu es beau!_ " The strange man cooed to him, picking him up in his arms. Matthew didn't resist, reaching out a small hand to tug on silky blonde hair. The man laughed and bounced him up and down, speaking in a language Matthew didn't understand. " _Petit Mathieu, l'Angleterre est si chanceux!_ "

"Put him down, France!"

Matthew started at the loud voice and buried his face in the stranger's hair with a muffled wail.

France chuckled lightly and started rocking from side to side. "You startled him, _Angleterre_."

"Put him down right now," England repeated, more forcefully. "He's not yours!"

" _Mais que sais-tu, Angleterre_?"

* * *

"Where's Matthew?"

England looked down to see his older son tugging at his trouser leg, one hand still loosely holding his wooden practice sword.

"That stupid bastard stole him," England replied shortly.

Alfred's eyes widened in horror. "France stole Matthew?"

England knelt down and placed his scarred hands on Alfred's shoulders. "Don't worry about it. I'll get him back quickly, before anything bad can happen to him."

His son was silent for a few moments before asking tentatively, "Is France going to come take me away too?"

"Of course not, lad," England said fiercely, "And if he does, I'll make sure to protect you from him. You can trust me. I'll always take care of you."

A small smile spread across Alfred's face before it blossomed into a confident grin. "That's okay! I'm nearly as big as you now, and I can protect myself!"

Laughing at how quickly the young boy had gone from scared to cocky, England stood back up and ruffled his son's hair. "In a few years, I'll have to worry about you causing all sorts of trouble for me, aren't I?"

Alfred looked up at him, blue eyes dancing. "I would never do that! You can trust me too! I'll always protect you!"

* * *

The years passed, and Matthew grew up in France's castle. He was the darling French prince, doted on by all the palace staff, saved from the cruel grasp of the English, raised with French all around him and French seeping into him.

It was Alfred who finally arrived to rescue ( _kidnap_ ) him. Matthew ran to greet his brother, exclamations pouring from both their lips.

They stopped talking when they realized they could no longer understand each other. Alfred cried and clung to Matthew and mumbled forgotten words that did nothing to breach the barrier between them.

* * *

When England saw Matthew, he pulled his son into an embrace as one hand continued to point his sword at the fallen France. Matthew was too afraid to say anything, unable to keep up with the English tumbling from his father's lips.

Matthew was taken from France, holding tightly onto his brother as they galloped north to where the English ships were waiting to take them home.

When he chanced a look backwards, all he saw was smoke staining the blue sky.

* * *

England didn't understand France's harsh laughs until they made it home ( _not home, never home_ ) to London and Alfred had to tell him Matthew couldn't speak their language anymore. The king's anger at that time was terrible to behold as he stormed around his chambers, destroying more than a few expensive trinkets as he raged and screamed.

Matthew lived in a near constant fear after that, every sound that crossed his lips heavily screened so that England would not catch him speaking 'that barbaric language', every move that he made carefully controlled so that England would not accuse him of picking up bad habits from 'that damn wine bastard'.

Matthew spent a lot of time with his brother, the two of them working slowly together to overcome the rift from nearly ten years apart. Alfred helped Matthew with his English and whispered funny stories to him when he couldn't sleep. Matthew clung to Alfred during his first few months back in London whenever England walked past.

Alfred's eyes lost their shine when Matthew stumbled into his room one day, a dark bruise staining his face, mouth moving in silent, forbidden, French prayers.

* * *

Alfred and Matthew knelt before their father. England considered them for a few moments before bidding them rise.

"Alfred, your birthday was two days ago; Matthew, yours is tomorrow." England stood and descended the steps until he stood on even ground with them. Both his sons were slightly taller than him, but there was no question about who held the most power in the room. "I would like you both to gain some experience in ruling the Empire."

Alfred's eyes lit up. "Do we get to be kings for a day?"

England gave Alfred a small smile. "Not really, no. But I'd like the two of you to act as the head of America and Canada – still reporting to me, of course."

"I call America!" Alfred shouted right away, pulling his brother into an sideways hug. "Isn't this cool, Mattie?"

"You'll call him Canada now," England corrected, though his smile grew as well. "Come on, it's a time for celebration! I told the chefs to prepare a feast for today."

America pulled his brother along excitedly, his laughter echoing in the hall.

"Don't make me regret this!" England shouted after them. "Make me proud!"

"We will! Won't we, Mat- I mean, Canada?"

* * *

"Mattie? Is that you?" America poked his head into the room. "I heard a crash; is everything okay?"

Canada was kneeling on the floor, trying to pick up the broken shards around him. America saw that he was crying when he turned around. "A-America … I bumped into the stand, and it fell, a-and England is going to be so mad! Alfred, _q-qu'est-ce que …_ w-what am I going to do? He'll kill me; he loved this vase!"

"Hey, hey, calm down, okay?" America ran to his brother's side. "First off, stop trying to pick it up, you're cutting your hands. Come on, you sit down and I'll clean this up, okay?" America led his brother to a chair and waited for Canada to nod before approaching the mess again. He looked around the room, unsure what to do, until an idea came to him.

He yanked the covers off of the bed and used them to sweep all of the shards together. It was awkward and he nearly tripped several times as he stepped on the fabric that he was trying to pull, but eventually he had made a pile. Canada had quieted down and was watching him with interest.

"See?" He told Canada kindly. "It's no big deal. I'll just scoop it all up like this, and then we'll throw it away somewhere and England won't even notice! He's always too busy storming around the castle being grumpy anyway; he won't pay attention to a vase!"

Canada nodded timidly. America grinned and bundled the sheets up with all the broken shards inside.

"America!" England appeared in the doorway, eyes furious. "What are you doing?"

Canada scrambled off the chair and flitted immediately to his brother's side. "E-England, it was m-my -"

"I ran into the nightstand and the vase fell," America cut in, lifting his chin. He met his father's gaze bravely, even though he was already anticipating the shouting that was about to occur.

England's eyes narrowed and he spat out, "Canada. Get out."

With a terrified look at his brother, Canada left the room. Once he was out in the hall, he pressed his ear to the door.

"You're nothing but a disappointment!" England shouted. Canada heard America murmur something in response, but his answer was drowned out by England's voice. "Why can't you be more like your brother? Even if he spent years with that bastard, at least he's worth more than you!"

Canada fled to his room.

* * *

"Hey," America said softly as he knocked on the door.

Canada paused in his reading and looked over. He immediately got off his bed and rushed over to America, eyes wide with concern.

"Don't worry about it," America said bravely as Canada made a few worried sounds. "All he did was shout, and he does that most days anyway."

"Th-Thank you," Canada whispered quietly, taking his brother by the hand and leading him further into the room. "You didn't have to – it was all my fault -"

"Don't worry about it." America grinned at him. "I'll protect you whenever you need it, Mattie. Don't worry as long as I'm around, okay?"

Canada felt tears welling up again. America grabbed his brother into a hug and Canada squeezed back tightly. "Y-Yeah. I won't."

* * *

"America, where's Canada?"

America didn't stop to answer his father. He pulled out another arrow, notched it in his bow, and let it fly. One after another, they buried themselves deep into the trees at the other end of the range, piercing the bull's-eye one at a time.

"America! Answer me!"

His concentration slipped for a moment and the bow twitched slightly. America turned around in frustration as the arrow disappeared into the woods. "What is it?"

"Where's Canada?"

America gave his father an exasperated look. "How should I know? Isn't he in Ottawa?"

"Watch your tone. I just visited Ottawa, and he's not there."

"Well, I don't know."

England narrowed his eyes and glared at his son. America stiffened under the gaze, not daring to meet the king's eyes.

Finally, England stepped away. As he started along the path back up to Washington, he called over his shoulder, "That last shot was off. You need to practice more! I raised you to be better than that!"

America growled as he went to fetch his arrows. He freed all the visible ones from their targets and went in search of the wayward arrow. When he had them all collected, he headed back to his home with a sigh.

"Mattie." The first raindrop hit him on the head. "What are you doing now?"

* * *

" _Bonsoir, France._ "

"… _Mathieu_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made England seem like such a bad father =/ But I won't say he isn't, just that he has his reasons. All four of them do, for being as angsty and screwed up as they are ;
> 
> Not much to say about this chapter. Just lots of time jumps, Alfred being protective of his brother and feeling guilty about what happened to him, Matthew feeling like unloved and like he should be grateful except he isn't, and Arthur hating himself and taking it out on his kids.
> 
>  _Translations_ :
> 
> " _Mais comme tu es beau_!" - Er, this translation is a bit tricky because translating it directly is sort of weird ... something like "Oh, you're so cute!"
> 
> " _Petit Mathieu, l'Angleterre est si chanceux_!" - "Little Matthew, England is so lucky!"
> 
>  _Mais que sais-tu, Angleterre_?" - "But what do you know, England?"


	3. don't say a word i'm okay with the quiet

Canada sits beside France as France and America discuss a revolution. France rests his hand on Canada's knee, a small but commanding gesture that tells the prince without a doubt that France thinks Canada was his.

France murmurs a few words of sympathy about America's mouth and England's temper, and then he smoothly brings the topic around to how America should stage his uprising. France will supply a few troops, of course, but he will need to stay mostly out of the way.

Canada watches as America listens and nods, and wonders if his brother knows he is being played by France as easily as he is constantly being rubbed the wrong way by England. There is no way England won't recognize France's troops, so there was no sense in France 'staying out of the way', unless he didn't plan to be there at all.

"It's quite convenient that you each rule a separate island," France muses idly, a finger lazily tracing designs on Canada's leg. "He'll come after you, of course, but most of his strength lies in his ships. Dear Arthur always was too proud of his rule over the sea."

"England _is_ made up of three islands," Canada points out, but he is ignored, as usual.

America turns towards his brother with a curious look. "Say, Mattie, what are you going to do?"

" _Mathieu_ will remain under England's rule as a spy, of course," France replies right away. His hand creeps up along Canada's inner thigh. "Isn't that right, _Mathieu_?"

America's face darkens considerably. "Don't call him that. Mattie is not some toy of yours that you can just play with!"

Canada wonders if America realizes what he's saying. "I can take care of myself, America."

"Mattie should fight with me," America argues as if he hadn't spoken. "The two of us could take down Arthur, no problem!"

"England," Canada corrects halfheartedly.

France and America share a glance, a wary but satisfied smile creeping onto both of their faces. They speak together, two distinct voices blending into one. "Not for much longer."

* * *

Canada passes the night in France's arms, gasping and moaning on command. He buries his face in France's neck and whimpers as the king whispers a string of meaningless words into his ear.

" _\- beau – t'es si – ah, Mathieu!_ _Je t'aime, je t'aime -_ "

Canada lets the French blur away, telling himself he can't believe the honeyed lies dripping from his lover's mouth.

* * *

Canada and America leave France's home together, their shoulders brushing as they walk. France sees them off with a smirk and a cup of wine in his hand.

"Take care," he tells them, blowing Canada a kiss. Canada nods, shooting a glance at his brother to see if he notices. America is frowning slightly but doesn't comment, and the two of them take off into the woods.

They skirt any signs of life and make their way directly to the sea, where their small boat is hidden. As they move together to make their way home, America speaks.

"You're not actually going to listen to him, are you? I won't leave you behind. The two of us can create a new empire, one even stronger than England's."

Canada doesn't want to listen to America's well-meaning ( _greedy, tempting_ ) words. He hunches his shoulders and faces the north wind as they return to England.

* * *

England calls out for Canada to come in before he can even raise his hand to knock on the door. Canada pushes the door open and steps into his father's private library. England is sitting by the fire, a cup of tea in his hand and a carefully blank look on his face.

Canada kneels, but England turns and waves his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about that, Cana – Matthew. This conversation concerns private matters."

England gestures for him to sit across from him and Canada does so cautiously. He can't remember the last time his father asked to have a conversation with him about 'private' matters and he can't help wondering why he's here and not his brother.

"Alfred has been quite a handful lately," England says lightly, raising the cup to take a sip. "Do you know what's been on his mind?"

It only takes those two sentences for Canada to understand. He leans back slightly in his seat and tries to appear obedient and helpful. "I think he's just concerned for the people and for you. The war is really taking a toll on everyone and especially on you, I would imagine."

"Your concern is touching, but hardly the truth, I don't think. Alfred has always been a boy with too many wild ideas and too many grand dreams." England shifts slightly in his seat and his gaze fixes on Canada like a hawk's. "Has he mentioned anything to you about a rebellion?"

Canada stops breathing for a moment before he remembers to furrow his brows and shake his head. He's terrified that England will detect the lie and call him out on it. The seconds pass by slowly before England lets out a slow sigh.

"I was worried," the king admits, pressing the palms of his hands into his closed eyes. Canada hasn't seen England like this in ages – as _Arthur_ , and not _England_ – not since the hazy memories of his early childhood. "I know I haven't been the best father, but I've tried, I really have. It's just – I was alone for so long when I was younger, and then your mother came along, and you two were born, and everything became too much."

England looks up and gives Canada a wry smile. "Did you know it's easier to be king than it is to raise two sons?"

 _But you didn't raise me_ , Canada wants to say. _You never loved me. I was always a reminder of your loss and France's victory. Alfred was your only son._

"You'll tell me, of course, if anything is wrong?" Just like that, Arthur is gone and England is back. Canada nods dumbly and bows, more out of habit than anything else. England gives him a measured smile before he leaves. "I always knew I could trust you."

Canada hurries out of the room, trying to close his mind to the lies-truths-lies that seem to follow him everywhere.


	4. the truth is gonna change everything

Canada watches them, two figures blurred by the rain. He sees them raise their swords at each other like they're nothing more than common enemies. He sees America's surprise and England's hesitation as he rushes at his son and then finally, he sees England fall to his knees.

Canada knows that America has won. England will no longer rule them.

Then he hears the first notes of a tune he knows all too well, and turns, his heart clenching because that anthem was never meant to be played on these lands. He sees France on the hilltop, a flag bearer to his right, holding his sword in one hand and the reins of his mare in the other.

He hears England's cry of rage and betrayal and America's denial behind him as France urges his mount forward. He's too stunned to ask the king what he's doing here or why he's interfering now, of all times, and France rides to him with a faint smile and a look in his eyes that leaves Canada feeling cold.

France throws a rose to him and calls out, " _Pour la liberté, l'égalité, et la fraternité_!" as he thunders past. Canada ignores the flower and hastens to get out of the way as France's men pound after their leader.

The sword is too heavy in his hand and the rain is drenching him. He refused to stand with his father against his brother and refuses now to stand with his brother and his lover against his father. With a strangled sob, Canada sinks to his knees in the mud.

He watches, unable to tear his eyes away, as England staggers to his feet, hissing and spitting in defiance, his hackles raised and his pride insurmountable. He sees America reach out helplessly and France stand in his way, and he knows that France has won.

* * *

America comes looking for him after England retreats back to the main island, uttering threats all the way, his men trooping after him with hatred in their eyes. He drops to his knees beside his brother and grins weakly. "Did you know France was coming, Mattie?"

Canada is silent for a few moments, the raindrops falling silently onto his closed eyelids. "No. He didn't tell me."

"You sure he didn't mention anything?" America shifts so that he's leaning against the tree trunk like Canada is, and gives his brother a gentle punch in the arm. "You would've told me if he had, right? I can trust you?"

"You shouldn't trust anyone in a war," Canada replies. _I don't even trust myself_. "But yes, you can trust me."

America drapes an arm over him and says, "You're the best brother ever, Mattie."

"I'm your only brother." Canada tries to chuckle, but he's afraid it comes out more strangled than he would like.

"Even if we had another, he wouldn't be as awesome as you," America elaborates.

"Thanks, I guess."

They sit side by side for a while in the near silence, the rain whispering secrets around them as America rests his head on Canada's shoulder.

Canada keeps his eyes closed and hopes he doesn't dream.

* * *

"The choice is yours."

He finishes his speech, unable to look at the people massed before him as the whispers start. Bowing his head, he scurries out of their sight and heaves a sigh, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to relieve himself of some of the weight that stress has pressed upon his shoulders.

His brother is somewhere having a war conference with France. His father is no doubt fuming in his castle, wondering where he had gone wrong. He himself has just finished telling his people that it is their choice who they support in the war, but that Canada's army will not be mobilizing for either side.

How can he ask them to choose when he can't even choose himself?

* * *

There's a light tap at his window in the middle of the night. Jolted awake, Canada turns his head towards the window and hears a quiet whistling from outside. Confused, he stumbles out of bed and throws his shutters open.

" _T'es pas assez prudent, Mathieu_ ," France chastises as he slides past Canada into the room.

Canada closes his shutters again and leans against them, watching France. " _Qui d'autre sifflerait l'hymne de la France_?"

" _Un assassin, peut-être_?" France grinned at him, tilting his head upwards to meet Canada's lips.

" _Un assassin de la France_?" Canada asks once they part, but France just shakes his head and laughs. " _Pourquoi es-tu ici_?"

" _Trop de questions, Mathieu_!" France chastises him and then grabs his hand, leading him towards the bed.

"No," Canada says firmly, and he sees France jerks his head towards him in surprise. "Answer my questions. Why are you here, in Ottawa? I've never given you permission to come here before."

" _Mathieu_ ," France whines, but Canada doesn't budge. France heaves a sigh. " _Ton frère m'a dit que tu ne veux pas joindre la guerre_."

"I thought you wanted me to stay with England."

" _C'est plus nécessaire._ _Avec la coopération de l'Amérique, on aura une victoire complète_."

Canada frowns. "But why are you here?"

" _Nous joindre_." France squeezes the hand he's holding. " _On peut détruire l'Angleterre_."

"I don't want to destroy England," Canada says, closing his eyes as a headache starts to sink in. "Don't make me choose, France. I won't."

France just shrugs and smiles at Canada. " _On peut le faire sans toi. Oublie-le_."

Canada rubs his face. They were getting nowhere. " _Pourquoi es-tu ici, France_?"

France tugs on his hand again and sits on the bed, leaving Canada to stand over him. He lets go and spreads his hands under Canada's shirt. Canada lets out a slight shiver as France's fingers brush his sensitive sides and bites his lip.

" _Tu as déjà vu la Paris_ ," France whispers, placing a kiss in the sharp dip between Canada's hipbones. " _Je voulais voir le cœur de Canada_."

* * *

A letter arrives for him a few days later. As the page delivers it to him, Canada recognizes the handwriting right away, although there is no identifying seal.

 _You betrayed me. You are no longer my son._

England had elaborately scrawled his name across the top before crossing it out several times.

Canada crumpled up the letter and wondered if America had gotten the same message from their father.

* * *

"Mattie!"

America bursts into his home full of energy, his blue eyes wide and wild.

"What is it?" Canada is on his feet, already dreading the news.

"We've decided! France and I are attacking London in two days!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a ridiculous amount of French in the chapter, for which I apologize. I tried to make up for it by using words that resembled English ones and adapting Canada's dialogue, but I'm not sure how that turned out ... orz
> 
>  _Pour la liberté, l'égalité, et la fraternité_ \- For freedom, equality, and brotherhood (freedom - freedom from England, equality - equality between their peoples, brotherhood - the bond between America and Canada)
> 
>  _T'es pas assez prudent, Mathieu._ \- You're not careful enough, Matthew.
> 
>  _Qui d'autre sifflerait l'hymne de la France?_ \- Who else would be whistling the French anthem?
> 
>  _Un assassin, peut-être?_ \- An assassin, perhaps?
> 
>  _Un assassin de la France?_ \- A French assassin?
> 
>  _Trop de questions, Mathieu!_ \- Too many questions, Matthew!
> 
>  _Ton frère m'a dit que tu ne veux pas joindre la guerre._ \- Your brother told me that you did not want to join the war.
> 
>  _C'est plus nécessaire. Avec la coopération de l'Amérique, on aura une victoire complète._ \- That is no longer necessary. With America's cooperation, we will have a complete victory.
> 
>  _Nous joindre. On peut détruire l'Angleterre._ \- Join us. We could destroy England.
> 
>  _On peut le faire sans toi. Oublie-le._ \- We can do it without you. Forget about it.
> 
>  _Pourquoi es-tu ici, France?_ \- Why are you here, France?
> 
>  _Tu as déjà vu la Paris. Je voulais voir le cœur du Canada._ \- You have already seen Paris. I wanted to see the heart of Canada.


	5. so lie to me and tell me it's going to be alright

" _Mathieu_."

France appears in the smoke in front of Canada. Canada watches him approach warily, one hand still on his bloodied sword.

" _C'est fini_ ," France murmurs as he stands in from of Canada, his blue eyes bright in the red blood and fire that surrounds them.

Canada rushes forward when France collapses onto his knees, shaking. It takes a few moments for Canada to realize that it's laughter – harsh, dissonant, laughter – that's coming from France and not tears.

"Matthew!"

Canada turns around to see America rushing to him, a grimace in place. When he arrives though, his brother offers him a bitter smile and says, "We won."

"Yeah," Canada replies, trying to pull his lips upward into something that at least resembles a smile. "You won."

"No," America insists, pulling his brother into a hug. Canada stumbles forward into his brother's arms, unable to muster the energy to fight him. "The United States have won. America and Canada together."

"No," Canada echoes, leaning forward. His chin fits comfortably on America's shoulder. "We can be America and Canada, but not the United States of America."

America pulls back, a wounded expression on his face. "You don't want to rule together?"

"You know that's never going to work. There will be arguments about heirs and the closest descendents and nothing will ever be decided without a bunch of nobles objecting."

They pass a few moments in silence. France has fallen silent, although Canada doubts that he is listening. Finally, America smiles again and nods his head. "Yeah, I guess you're right. But we did it, didn't we? We won!"

Canada lets himself be pulled back into America's arms, his brother's happy laughter ringing around them.

* * *

Canada doesn't go see France for several days after London stops burning. When he finally does, France welcomes him with open arms and a chaste kiss to his forehead.

" _Je suis si fier de toi_ ," the king whispers into Canada's ear. " _On a gagné la guerre_."

"What was so funny?" Canada asks quietly as France's breath moves down to tickle his neck. There are gentle kisses being pressed to his exposed skin and he tries not to squirm when France's hands move to his sides. "You were laughing, when I found you."

" _La français_ ," France reprimands, pausing for a moment.

" _Je m'excuse. Pourquoi riais-tu quand je t'ai trouvé_?"

France's hands slip under his shirt, one sliding upwards to play with his nipples and the other one pressing him firmly against France's chest.

" _C'était rien_."

* * *

America sits across from him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "No one's seen him since France's attack on London, and his body hasn't been identified as one of the dead. What do you think happened to him?"

"You could talk about him with a little bit more respect," Canada scolds quietly. "He was our father and the king of an empire, and he might be dead."

An almost unidentifiable look settles on America's face as he smiles sadly. "Yeah, I guess. But I don't really believe he's dead, you know? England would never die that easily."

* * *

" _Angleterre_."

England is about to snarl a response when France's lips crash down on his own, swallowing his defiance. France sucks and nibbles and coaxes him to let him in until England is left slumped on the floor of a small cottage in the middle of nowhere panting for breath.

"It's all about loyalty, isn't it, Arthur?"

With a terrible smile, France is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, those of you who have made it this far!
> 
>  _C'est fini_. - It's over.
> 
>  _Je suis si fier de toi_. _On a gagné la guerre_. - I am so proud of you. We won the war.
> 
>  _Je m'excuse. Pourquoi riais-tu quand je t'ai trouvé_? - I'm sorry. Why were you laughing when I found you?
> 
>  _C'était rien_. - It was nothing.


End file.
